We caught a ride in an eighteen-wheeler on our
way to the Rainbow Gathering in New Mexico.
She was a fruititarian named Carrie
who was sure that harmonic convergence
was going to happen at noon on 7/7/’77
and give us all the power to fly.
We slept on bare ground in a parking lot
at a Bluegrass music festival in Southern Idaho
and dreamed of lifting off with the flamingos,
two million of us, circling over Lake Eyasi,
soaring together in crystal naked pink flight.
The next morning we woke up covered by
a blanket left by a stranger, our wings clipped short.
She gave me her medicine pouch and a feather
and told me that salt marshes just weren’t her thing
then left me for a banjo player named Moonstone.
And now, I am searching for the flamingo
hiding in this keyboard, pink from shrimp,
button eyes, standing tip-toe on one leg,
I think I may have seen it last Tuesday,
hitchhiking somewhere around the semi-colon